


Emotionally Prepared

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Power (TV)
Genre: And Milan is a shameless enabler, Blood, Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, It's not like it's weird or anything, Look Petar is a man of certain tastes ok, Masturbation, Other, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 17:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: Tommy reacts gleefully to the violence, which is fine. There doesn’t seem to be a limit (apart from the obvious; he’d run away as soon as the carving knives came out).But Petar prefers it when it’s just the two of them.(or, 'letting your second-in-command jerk off to the brutal torture of some poor dipshit who got in your way is totally part of being a good boss; look it up some time')





	

Milan picks up a tool, inspects it carefully, puts it down again. He picks up another.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks.

“...no.” It’s almost inaudible, as if the man in the chair doesn’t want it to be true. “No.”

“Alright,” Milan says amicably, and goes in with a scalpel.

The first scream is always a good one, and Petar savours it. It’s the sound of a man who is convinced that he will never make such a noise - surprise and despair on top of the pain. Soon, it will become raw; tuneless keening at every fresh assault. Perhaps his voice will crack, or he will tire, and then the quieter expressions will start, maybe the sobs. This one will probably not beg. But there is still lots to come.

Petar clasps his hands in front of him and presses the heel of his palm on his belt buckle. He shouldn’t imagine too much at this stage.

“You know us,” Milan says, bringing him out of his trance even if he’s not addressing him. “You know what we do to liars, and thieves.”

He’s working close in with the scalpel, making some artwork. His tone is almost conversational - and that’s where they differ. Milan enjoys seeing people get what’s coming to them, but he’s indifferent to the act itself.

Although, he knows exactly what’s going on.

Petar casually moves around to the front, to look at the carvings seeping blood onto their victim’s chest. A spider web, large and detailed, and the spider within it. Milan is finishing the design on the spider’s back, cutting away tiny sections of skin.

The man is biting his lip, trembling, so Petar grabs his hair and wrenches his head back. He has to let his mouth drop open, and the whimpers escape. Each fresh line makes him twitch a little. Makes them both twitch, if they’re being honest.

“There.” Milan stands upright and Petar takes the cue to move back behind the chair. From here can see less of what’s going on, but also cannot be seen in turn. And if they’re going to leave this one alive, he wants to keep at least some secrets. It wouldn’t do to have the victim comment on it. It would just make it awkward.

Milan fetches a bucket from the table, and with a flick of his wrist throws water as if he’s washing a car. Some of it hits the ground, but most reaches its destination.

The victim’s wail of agony reaches the roof-beams. It’s salt water.

More is tipped over the wounds, flooding them and making the blood swirl pink, and he quivers long after the flow has stopped, cold and shock and stinging.

Petar unbuckles his belt. He’s not going to ruin another pair of trousers. This lesson was learned a long time ago.

“You remember the detective?” Milan says softly.

Petar frowns deeply and nods, silently imploring him to shut up. That’s exactly what he’s trying  _ not _ to think about. The detective was the one they sliced up with a razor blade - in the mouth - and then offered water. He  _ took _ it, opening up like a tiny bird, not knowing about the salt. That memory is for special occasions only.

“How about now? Do you want to tell us?”

The man shakes his head, drops flying from his hair. Milan shrugs and produces a lighter. Petar unbuttons his fly. He can’t believe his boss ever gave him permission to do this in the first place, but it’s become a thing. They don’t have a particularly special connection with each other - not in that way - but it’s always just the two of them.

The lighter is applied first to a place where the skin is thick - hands, maybe, or torso. Enough to be painful, but not unbearable. There’s an almost affronted ‘oww’. Then, the feet.

That makes him thrash, moaning desperately through gritted teeth, head arched to the side. When the lighter is removed with a prim little ‘click’, he sags in his bonds and stays there, panting.

“Where next?” It’s addressed to both of them, but Milan catches Petar’s eye. He doesn’t really need to ask. Not after this long. He flicks the lighter on again and brings it to an elbow. The spasms shudder up the victim’s arms and shoulders. The chair wobbles with the force of it. At the peak, Milan shuts off the flame and stamps hard on his foot. He shrieks. Petar leans on a table for support.

“Please… please….”

“You said he wouldn’t beg, Petar. You owe me.” He bends over and takes their captive’s face in both hands. The lighter is still nestled between his fingers. “You’ve had enough? So you’re ready to talk a little?”

From the look on Milan’s face, Petar can tell that there are tears. Excellent.

“No?”

The backhand is quick and vicious and catches them both by surprise. Petar swears quietly and clamps his hand down and pretends that he doesn’t know that Milan heard it. Maybe he needs to work on his stamina. But the air is thick with blood and fear and the faintest trace of roasting, and he can never resist it for long.

Milan picks up a hammer and advances with it, and the snap of the first bone is what does it. The wordless howl into empty space covers Petar’s breathing, as he steadies himself and pulls out a handkerchief.

“Already?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, tucking back into his pants. “It’s been a while.”

“I know.” Milan ruffles the captive’s hair; the man is weeping and coughing, his jaw hanging open, as if he can’t believe the state of his arm. “But we’re not finished yet. Come and help.”

It’s more of an invitation than a command, but Petar springs to attention immediately.

(At least, most of him does.)

(Some parts still need a rest, before that can happen again.)


End file.
